


A Walking Shadow

by TheNotoriousBecchi



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Gen, Horror, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:34:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28330230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNotoriousBecchi/pseuds/TheNotoriousBecchi
Summary: We follow young siblings, Brigid and Fergus, as their village is raided by foreign invaders. Orphaned and homeless, the children embark on a journey toward Midland that initiates the journey of a lifetime.
Relationships: Casca/Guts (Berserk), Griffith & Guts (Berserk), Griffith (Berserk)/Original Character(s), Guts (Berserk)/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	1. Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows canon events in Berserk until a certain point.
> 
> The sections that are written in italics are told from the past perspective, when Brigid is a child. The narrative toggles between a couple of different time points. In the present, she and Fergus are roughly the same age as the canon members of the Band of The Hawk.
> 
> This is the first fic that I have ever been brave enough to start publishing, so please enjoy! ~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hear the story of The Road as Fergus and Brigid embark on their journey toward civilization...

In those days, history was passed down through the generations by elders, following an ancient script originally entrusted to druids. These sermons, however, were nothing like those the priests told at the churches. Sentences and words were constructed in such a way that no detail was ever forgotten, no emotion fell flat. It was an effect that was universally called “magical.” Druids called it recantation; now we call it parable. Though the original scripts were written by druids, they are a form of magic meant to be shared.

_My mother and father recanted the story of the Faudain Road when I was five years old. We were seated around the hearth, sipping spiced mead while frigid winter air seeped through the cracks in the walls and floorboards. Mother held Fergus in her lap, wrapped in a wool blanket. Father sat opposite them, smoke rolling from his pipe in a steady rhythm while I lay on my stomach in front of the fire; the tin cup burnt the surface of my palms. Father’s roaring voice rumbled above the crackling of the cinders, “Are you ready for tonight’s tale? It’ll be a right good one indeed.” I felt his gaze hit the back of my neck and my hairs stood on end. Over my shoulder, I saw one thick red brow raised and a smirk hiding under his braided beard. “Ye’ll go blind if you stare too long.” I rolled onto my side and took a sip of my mead, coughing as the pungent spices rippled down my throat; fiery warmth surrounded me._

_“What I’m about to tell ye is the tale of the Faudain Road,” Father began. “Be assured that this will be one of the most important tales you will ever hear.” He nodded toward my mother and Fergus, who was sucking his thumb slowly. Mother smiled down at him, and Father opened his mouth to continue._

_“There is a road which crosses every land, but it cannot be mapped. It is known by its true name of faudain, which means “wandering.” The road cannot be approached; it finds you when you truly need it. And if you travel along it, you will not feel the passage of time, or be able to navigate the journey. The Road ends when it is necessary for you.”_

_“A guardian always walks the Road,” Mother’s soft voice cut in. The whites of the flames were reflected in her eyes. “She is the first being you will encounter, as well as the last.” A gale of icy wind shook the house, but the flames did not stutter. “Faudain Road is open to the living and the dead alike.”_

_“How do you know you’re on the Road?” I asked._

_“The world around you will change,” Mother said. “It is as if you’ve stepped through a doorway.” I looked down at my cup and saw it was empty. I do not remember finishing the mead, but my limbs had grown heavy._

_“Right, time for bed,” Mother lay Fergus down on the bearskin rug and Father extinguished his pipe. I crawled over and lay next to my brother. Mother’s voice drifted to me through the flickering darkness, “If you are ever without us, the Road will find you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The proper second chapter to this fic should be up by the end of the month, at the latest. Enjoy! :)


	2. Suspension

Imagine you are floating on your back in the cold dark waters of a bottomless well. Above, you see gray darkness, the edges of your vision a bit blurry from the glint of sunlight beyond the stone covering. Down below – you don’t dare to look – you know there is nothing but blackness and the shadows of nightmares. Your muscles flex and goosebumps crawl up your flesh because you _know_ the abyss is your destination if you break the suspension. Images wash over your eyes at the fleeting reminders of your past life. While trapped in this abysmal sleep, all you have are memories, not dreams. That is just a glimpse of my experiences in that unreality, before I awakened. Now, I am telling my story, before fate inevitably captures me in its talons.

After seeing my life in seemingly infinite rotations, I became more confident than ever, and more disturbed by certain details. I could not break the bonds in my mind, despite repeating a mantra, “Open my eyes.” Even still, as I sleep in a proper bed, my body grows numb and heavy limbs sink further into the phantom depths as the cycle of memories repeats once again.

_It always begins with the image of my young brother, Fergus, smiling up at me out in a course yellow field, pointing at a wooden target I had just pierced with my arrow. The warm summer breeze brushes loose strands of auburn hair across my face, and I crinkle my nose._

_“See that, Ferg?” I implore. “It’s all about focus. One day, the targets will be moving.” Fergus just scoffs and shakes his head, glaring at my bullseye target._

_“Well, I’ve still got ye beat with a slingshot any day.” Laughing, my childish voice feels foreign in my diaphragm. Fergus snatches my bow from my hands and starts to run toward home, back through the pines, and I follow, my cheeks hot, sweat sticking to my matted hair like dew drops._

_The landscape is bright. Streams of sunlight shine through gaps in the trees and highlight every rock, root, and weather-beaten trail as our footsteps kick up dust. The smell of wood smoke gets stronger as we turn each corner – supper is ready for us at home. Fergus looks over his shoulder and laughs at me, and right before I open my mouth to speak, I see our village at the bottom of the last hill; the roofs are in flames, and people are screaming. My knees buckle, and something appears in the corner of my right eye. The gold and green flag of Eira was replaced by the burgundy, white, and gold crest that many people across the providence had come to fear: the Tudor flag. It slowly flutters at the tip of the church steeple, like a great bird stretching its wings over prey._

_A small hand touches my shoulder and I can hear Fergus sniffling behind me. I jump and take his hand in both of mine, looking at him intently._

_“We have to go find mum and dad, even if they’re dead.”_

_Fergus clenches his jaw and I yank him toward the village, sprinting. Down the hill and through the body-littered streets, the smoke stings my eyes and my feet move like a serpent through the mobs of burly, mountainous raiders. “The house is just round this corner,” I tell myself as I hear Fergus’s footsteps fumbling, desperate to keep up. At the end of the main road, I see the house to my left, its wooden walls still standing, but the door is wide open. Gulping, I squeeze my brother’s hand tighter as we approach the threshold._

_“Shh,” I whisper over my shoulder, peeking through the doorway. My ears ring as my mother – pinned beneath a strange man – lets out a blood-curdling scream._

_“RUN! Run for yer lives, Brigid! Don’t look at me now!”_

_Caught under a terrible spell, my feet are bound to the floor and my body quakes as I watch the monstrous man pounce upon my mother like a rabid animal. Her dress is already torn open and her torso covered in blood. I force my eyes to move and I clutch my chest: my father’s body is a crumpled heap on the ground in the next room, in front of the dining table. The house had been ransacked; every piece of furniture, food, and garment in ruins._

_“Get off my mum, bastard!” my brother’s voice rings from behind me, his fists balled at his sides. My bow falls to the floor. There is an abrupt **crack,** and I’m pulled from my trance as the raider turns to face us, his face gnarled from a broken nose and busted lip, and a long yellow braid hanging over his shoulder. My mother’s voice is gone. _

_Fergus darts toward the man, screaming in agony, and my eyes flick toward the fire to my right. Instinctually, I make a beeline for the poker laid against the stone hearth next to my mother while Fergus bites, scratches, and kicks the raider viciously. I grab the poker with both hands and turn around, just in time to see my brother being strangled by the intruder, held up in both massive hands by the neck._

_A shout rips through my chest as I lunge forward, and I feel his muscles and tendons rip as the poker pierces his left shoulder. The man drops my brother and crashes to the ground face first; Fergus rolls out of the way. Green eyes burn into mine and a growl shakes my sternum as the raider turns to face me, reaching for my poker like a blind man. Fergus is crouched against the back wall, pale with shock. Adrenaline surges through me as I thrust the poker under the raider’s outstretched arm, piercing his stomach deeply._

_Gurgling comes from his throat and blood soaks the sheepskin rug, then silence drops like a stage curtain. I can still hear faint screams from the village square, and my brother’s uneven breaths. My dress is soaked through with sweat. Shadows grow longer on the floorboards._

_“F-fergus,” I sputter, “w-we have to run. I have the poker and my bow, you have your slingshot. Take a knife from father, and let’s run as far as we can.”_

_Fergus sits on his knees, trembling like a newborn calf. “A-are mum and dad…”, he is unable to finish the sentence before heaving._

_“They’re gone, Ferg,” I reply solemnly, wiping hot tears with my coarse sleeve. “Ye know how the Tudors are. They steal everything. Mum told us to run, and that’s what we’ll do. We’ve got each other, always.”_

_“Aye, always,” he whispers, peeling himself off the ground. He approaches our father’s corpse on tip-toe, as if the man might come alive at any second, and fumbles at the bloodstained knife in his hand before wrenching it from his grasp. I place a foot upon the dead raider’s stomach and pull the poker out of him, carefully wiping his blood on his trousers. I scrape my hands against my dress and turn around to pick up my bow, slinging it over my shoulder on top of its quiver. Fergus approaches me unsteadily, quizzically looking down at the knife in his hands. He looks out door and groans, turning to face me again._

_“I don’ want to sleep outside, Brigid.”_

_I kneel to one knee and embrace him, pushing his mop of fiery hair against my chest. “I don’t want to either, but we’ve no choice now. I can’t sleep here knowing the village is destroyed, that mum, dad, and probably all the other children are gone forever.” My eyes ache and my voice shakes as I struggle to keep composure for Fergus’s sake. Somebody had to be strong for him._

_“C’mon now, hold my hand,” I say as I take labored steps toward the door for the last time. The sun has set now, and the wind is wailing like a ghost in the night. We round the house and head for the well in back, taking a few sips of cool water to rest our nerves. Then, I usher Fergus to the barn, luckily untouched by the raiders. By then, the commotion in the village had ended, replaced with a definite silence. Once inside the rickety doorway, we climb the ladder to the loft and nest in the closest haystack. Our old horse and pony huff and look at us inquisitively, their luminous eyes scanning the loft._

_“At least we’re staying at home one more night,” Fergus quipped, gripping my arm with both hands and slinging a leg over one of mine._

_“We need a ride if we’re traveling, you know,” I add almost as a second thought before I clamp my eyes shut for a few moments. The afterimage of my mother’s neck being broken startles me and I pull Fergus closer. “Pretend I’m mum tonight, so you can sleep,” I whisper. He barely nods, and I rest my head against his, listening to the breeze pass over the thatched roof; it sounds like the land is weeping._

That night came in fragments, separated by how many times my brother and I jolted upright in a cold sweat, with no need to explain why. Everything we saw could be a bad omen. When dawn broke, horizon resembled a fresh cut, bright red and pink light bleeding into gray and white clouds. I looked down at my white grass-stained dress, skirts covered in crusted bloody handprints, and shivered. It was the raider’s blood on my hands. I – a girl no older than eight years - had killed a man. In my heart, I knew that one action had branded me forever.

Fergus and I did not dare to enter our house again, for fear of encountering vengeful spirits, or stray raiders. Instead, we strapped a saddle to the spotted pony at the end of the barn and headed for the main road, with me taking the reins. Once we reached the dirt road, I steered the pony in the direction of the village church.

_“Don’t go back there, Brigid,” Fergus tugs my waist backwards. “There’s nothin’ left of Aenshire!”_

_I tighten my grip on the reins and give the pony a gentle nudge in her ribs, furrowing my brow. “Quit yer racket. I have to visit the church one last time, for good blessings.” Fergus’s grip around my waist gradually slackens as we ride down the all-too-familiar road. The stone buildings lining the streets pass by, nearly unrecognizable in the aftermath of the raiders’ torches and axes. Doors are unhinged and shattered, windows are smashed, roofs are torn, and walls are demolished and defaced. Bodies of people I grew up with are haphazardly strewn throughout the village, their faces gaunt and petrified. I cover my nose and mouth to stifle the onslaught of nausea as my head swims with the overwhelming stench of death. The surrounding fields are dotted with abandoned homesteads. At the end of the road, I see the church spire shrouded in the Tudor flag and hang my head low as I approach the front steps._

_“Hold onto the reins,” I tell Fergus as I hoist him off the pony. “And keep close, ye hear?”_

_Fergus nods and pushes against the small of my back, and I ascend the church steps. Overhead, the flag mutters in the slow breeze. We pass underneath the archway into the sanctuary and I immediately fall back, behind the pony’s muzzle. The sunrise casts a soft pink glow through the stained-glass windows and over the rows of pews and stone flooring. At the altar lies a pile of corpses – women, children, and priests – and a feathered spear topped with the ripped flag of Eira and rugged head of our village chieftain._

_“Samael,” I whisper, transfixed by the sway of his dark disembodied locks and beard. His eyes are closed, but his teeth are bared as if he were attacking phantoms in a nightmare. I shuffle toward the head until my fingertips brush against the flag, hanging by a few loose threads. It falls into my grasp and I wrap the gold and green garment around my shoulders; the emblem of a piper draping across my chest. I close my eyes and begin to bow my head in reverence before my skirts are jerked by Fergus’s shaky hand._

_As I turn toward him, he stammers, “Look there, behind the bodies. It’s a sign!”_

_I catch a glint of sunlight and face forward again, noticing the golden scepter of the blessed hawk, the god of the new age. It’s halo and outstretched wings peek over the top of Samael’s head, and I find myself standing on trembling legs. Then, I see what Fergus is struck by._

_“There’s no…” I look down at my stained skirts again, “no blood. No blood on the hawk.” I fall to my knees and pull Fergus down with me, smiling upwards with a toothy, euphoric grin. “He’s watching over us, Ferg. We aren’t alone.”_

_After a few quiet moments, I lift Fergus back onto the pony and guide her out of the church at a slow cadence, savoring the presence of everlasting life and death within those narrow walls. Through the doorway, the world is drowned in light now, and our path to freedom is clear. Among the dead, the ruins, and the deserted fields, salvation waits for us. These thoughts ring through me like bell tolls as the pony’s hooves march down the cobblestone steps of the church._

_“Remember what mum and dad always told us?” Fergus asks. “All them stories about the Faudain Road?”_

_“Right,” I smile back at him. “‘The Road will come to you,’ that’s what mum made us remember. Do you think it’s real?”_

_Fergus’s cheeks blush and he lets out a high, soaring laugh right into my ear. “O’course it’s real! Mum and dad wouldn’t lie. Besides,” he clears his throat, “old Father Duncan used to say that Aenshire was named after the road. You’ve got to believe a Father.”_

_I smirk and ruffle his greasy hair. “You’re wise, for a sprout.” I rub the pony’s muzzle and kick her again, and she jaunts back toward the home we left, the flag of my nation and my matted locks falling over my back like sparks._

_We followed the main road to the edge of the southern wood, just beyond our home. Though I knew what tragedies had taken place there, I still gazed through the empty threshold instinctively. My parents’ spirits were likely long-gone, but as long as their bodies remained in that place, they had resonance in this life in the eyes of a child. The pony snorted as I tugged the reigns at the corner of my father’s land; Fergus slumped against my back and despair hit me. My hands gripped the sides of my face and nails dug into my temples as tears burst from me. No noise accompanied them as my body seized from loss._

_“Where are they now?” my brother’s voice drifts to me. It was an age-old question that, at the time, I had an age-old answer to._

_“They’re in paradise, Ferg.” The statement warbles with a hint of uncertainty that I would not face for many years to come. “The piper took ‘em home, I know he did.”_

_Fergus’s forehead pressed into my shoulder blades and I felt tears form a stain on my dress as he asks, “Would we have remembered the Road if mum and dad weren’t still watchin’ us?”_

_“I don’t suppose so,” I reply. I dismount the pony, setting Fergus to the ground as he glares at me. “Come on.”_

_“Where’re we goin, Brig?” Fergus whines. “Not back the way we came, right?”_

_“I’m sorry Ferg,” I grip his hand tightly. “But we have to go back home – just one more time – so we don’t forget.” He looks up at me and I can feel the fear through his skin. I know he is afraid of forgetting, afraid of losing absolutely everything, just as I am._

_We round the bend once more and my pace quickens, almost running toward our front door. I hear Fergus’s feet tripping behind me as he tries to keep up. The door creaks as I push it open and my stomach is knotted; I know I will see my parents’ deaths once again. Fergus whimpers behind me and clings to my legs, stiff as wood. I see my mother’s feet on the edge of our sheepskin rug and wretch, covering my mouth. The air hangs heavy around me as I creep through the door, letting it shut behind me. Turning around, I look at Fergus, and he is staring at his feet, biting his lip to choke back tears. My father’s body lies a few feet in front of us, sprawled out on the ground with a sword in his side. I still cannot bear to look at my mother yet. At the time, I felt like I had failed her for not acting sooner, for being frozen in fear while she fought for her life._

_My voice sounds foreign as I point to a short floorboard under our dining table, “D’you remember Father’s old map under the floorboard there?”_

_Fergus only nods in reply and I squeeze his hand before letting go. “Go and fetch it, I have to look for mother’s vial.”_

_“Why would you want that thing?” he asks._

_I realize I had been staring at my mother’s lifeless body now, unable to feel anything but the rising conviction that cut through my words. “She left it for me. She never took it off…” my thoughts trail off as I crouch next to my mother and lift the thin gold chain from her bosom like an artifact. Attached to the chain is a small vial containing fragile plants, the white flowers tinged with yellow at the tips of their petals. My mother had told me to never remove them from the vial unless my life depended on it, as the plant’s poison was deadly._

_“Hemlock,” I breathed. “I’ll try to refill the vial as best I can when these lot die.” I’m brought back to reality when I hear the crack of the floorboard behind me and I turn around._

_“Found it!” Fergus exclaims, waving my father’s worn map in his hand. “At least we can get out of Aenshire well enough.”_

_“We shall,” I reply. Fergus and I leave the house and remount the pony waiting for us in the road. I secure my mother’s vial around my neck and give the pony a slight kick with my heels. It resumes its leisurely pace and I begin pouring my energy into remembering any detail I can from my parents’ stories. Their wisdom would help us survive._


End file.
